He dragged his feet across the strange weave of the Northron rug. It had a rough feel, as though it had been woven out of fibrous plant materials rather than fine-spun silk as those from the South he was accustomed to. He snorted, half out of mirth, half out of resignation. If this was the place that his love had chosen, then it would be where he would reside. Even if it meant that she was destined to be the wife of another. He had suffered far worse indignities in his short life, and could bide his time. If nothing more, he was a born waiter. Noble blood coursed in his veins, surely as did the common blood of his mother. That he was not acknowledged did not matter. He knew the truth of it as surely as his half-brother, whom he had served these eighteen years. His older brother knew not that he was aware of their relation, however. This was yet to be. Still, he had high ambitions, and he knew that his time was coming. Soon. Very soon. After all, his mother had told him that his name – Apep – had strong meanings in Dorne, a long time before. Apep had been a god of old; the slithering god; the one who had humbled himself and slid along the sands on his belly. Apep the god had been cast aside as useless, until his fangs full of venom had become useful to one of the hierarchy of the old gods. Then Apep had become indispensible to all the gods! He had just had to bide his time; to slither on his belly humbly, until his worth had been determined by the right ones above him.
The thought of slithering against Sand on his belly pleased Apep to no end. These next weeks – the tourney! – would be his time, indeed. Surely, an event of such grandeur would bring him to his rightful place! Surely, someone there would realize he was of value, of worth! And then, oh then…
Apep would have his reward. Oh, yes. His Sand reward. Apep was pleased.
